


Make It If We Can

by eleanor_lavish



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Blow Jobs, Closeted Character, Coming Out, First Time, Jealousy, Loss of Virginity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-09
Updated: 2014-12-09
Packaged: 2018-02-28 17:51:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2741588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eleanor_lavish/pseuds/eleanor_lavish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack opens a door he hasn't walked through in a long time. Bitty holds his hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Make It If We Can

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gw12](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gw12/gifts).



> Working titles of this fic: Jack is not the Michael Sam of the NHL; it's about feels and then WHOOPS, PORN.
> 
> Thanks to my writing buddy Allecto, to my last-minute beta Riverlight, and to Chelle and Schuyler for running this Swawesome exchange, and a special extra thanks to Schuyler for a) being my beta and cheerleader for this fic, b) getting me into CP in the first place, and c) being my bff. <3
> 
> Written for Natasha - hope you enjoy it!

The Samwell GALA dance is arguably one of the largest events on campus. There’s a huge LGBT community on campus (there are more letters, Jack has been told, but he’s positive he would screw it up so he sticks to what he knows from high school sex ed), and the dances the GALA group throws are pretty legendary. That said, it wasn’t part of the hockey team’s social calendar. Shitty and Lardo went most years, and Jack thinks a few of the guys the year above him used to go, but it wasn’t something the team really cared about.

But that was before Shitty found out that Bitty had skipped it his freshman year out of fear of making any of the guys uncomfortable. This year, Shitty’s rounded up the whole team, and Holster even dug up a mesh shirt from somewhere (which was enough to make Bitty almost sink through the floor in embarrassment) and Lardo spent an hour in Bitty’s room picking an outfit and fixing up his hair, and, Jack would wager, talking Bitty into going in the first place.

Bitty said he didn’t want to make the rest of the team uncomfortable, but for a guy who loves Beyonce and baking as much as Bittle does, Jack hasn’t known him to hang out with other gay students on campus. Jack doesn’t know a lot about people - he’s at least self-aware enough to admit that - but he knows what ‘socially uncomfortable’ looks like, and watching Shitty and Lardo and Ransom and Chowder crowd Bitty out the door to the GALA dance, Jack is pretty sure Bitty’s face is the _textbook definition_.

Jack follows to show support - to Bitty, to the team - but also to run interference if it looks like Bitty is having a truly terrible time. Jack is the Captain, and he’ll do what he has to do to protect his people.

Two hours later, Jack is reassessing his rescue plan, because Bitty is slightly drunk from taking nips from the flasks that two-thirds of the team snuck in with them, and he’s been dancing for four songs straight with a guy in a unicorn t-shirt and hipster glasses who looks like he’s probably in an a cappella group.

Jack fucking hates a cappella groups. And hipsters. And whatever sort of dancing Bitty and this guy are doing that involves way too much grinding. As the song swaps over to a slow R&B song and the guy leans in and whispers something that makes Bitty blush, Jack clenches his jaw and stalks toward them. Bitty definitely needs rescuing from this nightmare.

*

Eric wishes like hell he was paying better attention when this boy introduced himself. He _thinks_ the boy’s name is Brandon, but it could be Brendon, or even Braedon because Samwell has guys with names like Braedon. Eric does not feel like he should be faulted for not paying closer attention, because Brandon (god, he hopes it’s Brandon) was smiling at Eric and touching his arm and Eric can kind of see his nipples through his shirt and it was just _a lot_ , okay?

But he almost doesn’t care that he doesn’t quite know the name of the boy he’s been dancing with for nearly twenty minutes, because he’s floating a happy sea of pre-dance cupcakes topped off with cheap rum (Ransom’s poison of choice) and this boy is warm and tall and they’re dancing _really_ close and he’s - oh, hello, he’s clearly very happy to be dancing with Eric. Oh lord. Eric’s blush can probably be seen from space, but Brandon (oh god, is it _Bastian_??) grins wider and pulls him close. 

“So, um, what do you do at Samwell,” Eric stammers, even though trying to carry on a conversation over the thumping of the speakers is mostly a lost cause.

The guy leans in even closer, like that’s possible, and Eric is pretty sure he’s going to pass out from a combination of pheromones and all of his blood rushing to improper places at the same time. “I’d say ‘cute blonds’ but I don’t think it’s a good idea to make you blush more right now,” he says, laughing. Eric laughs with him because it’s all ridiculous - _he’s_ ridiculous. “My major is art history, but mostly I sing with the Samwell Swoodlypoopers. We made it to second-round callbacks for The Sing-Off last year,” he adds, obviously proud.

“Wow, that’s… impressive,” Eric manages, because it is, even if Ben Folds reminds him of every lame dad joke Ransom’s ever made about Holster. The guy slides his hand down until it’s resting just at the hollow of Eric’s back, and Eric keeps blushing as they press even closer.

“I have to say, you’re fucking adorable when you blush,” he murmurs in Eric’s ear and Eric just blushes harder. He should be flirting, he knows he should be flirting, but he’s never actually learned _how_. Luckily, his body seems to be giving all the right signals on its own. “So, what do _you_ do here at Samwell, Eric?”

Eric feels momentarily ashamed that this guy remembers his name before managing, “Well, I read books about history, but mostly I play…,” Eric’s voice gets caught in his throat as he spots a familiar face winding through the crowd, his scowl easily visible on his 6’1” frame. “Hockey,” he finishes lamely as Jack comes to a stop next to them, his arms crossed over his chest.

“Bittle,” Jack says, leaning in to yell in his ear over the music, “I’m just letting you know that we have a 1-on-1 scheduled for tomorrow morning.” Eric blinks up at him.

“I don’t - what?” he says, because he’s had a few drinks and Jack is even taller than Brandon-Bastian-whatever and because his eyes are really blue right now and because Eric has zero memory of a 1-on-1 scheduled with Jack. Eric remembers those.

“You need to work blocking from your left,” Jack says, and his scowl is focused on where Brandon’s hand is still sitting low on Eric’s back.

“Okay?” 

“So, you should probably get some sleep. We only have the ice until 9am practice starts.” Jack’s leaned in toward Eric so that Brandon is basically looking at the back of Jack’s shoulder. Eric can barely see him at all anymore. He feels Brandon’s arm slip off his waist.

“Hey, sorry, I didn’t know this was -” Brandon starts.

“I don’t think this is any of your business,” Jack growls, turning his scowl on Brandon in full force.

Brandon puts his hands up and walks off, and if Eric had blinked he’d have missed the satisfied little glint in Jack’s eyes. 

“Are you _kidding_ me?” Eric says, his voice raising on the end into a very put-upon question. Jack puts on his worried eyebrows and it’s all Eric can do not to punch him in his stupid nose.

“You feeling okay, Bittle?”

“I was _dancing_ with a _nice guy_ , Jack, and now I am apparently being forced to leave a great dance so I can go home and go to bed and then get up at the crack of dawn to practice left-side passes with you instead of _going home with_ -” Eric stumbles over the guy’s name, because he’s still not sure, but Jack’s face is surprised enough that Eric stops talking altogether.

“You… wanted to go home with that guy?” he asks, and the worried eyebrows are now confused and kind of sad.

“Yes, sometimes, maybe, I would like to hook up with someone,” Eric’s yelling now, and he’s blushing to his toes, but he’s so mad he can’t even slow down. “Some of us are not hockey-sexual, Jack. And that was the only guy all year who’s shown any interest in me at _all_ and now you’ve just -” Eric feels his chest tighten - he knows it’s true, but it sucks sometimes to remember that he came all the way to Samwell because it was so accepting, because he thought he could have experiences here that couldn’t have at home. But in almost two years, he’s managed to have two dates, the last of which (Ransom’s rugby playing Screw setup) ended in some drunk fumbling kissing behind the library until the guy had to pause to throw up in a bush. He’d never spoken to the guy again. “You know what, fuck it, I don’t have the energy for this conversation right now.” Eric pushes past Jack and out into the cool of the courtyard. He heads toward the copse of trees that separate the Quad from the pond, suddenly needing some privacy for his embarrassing loneliness freakout.

“Bittle!” 

Eric hears Jack behind him and just puts his head down and walks faster. 

“Bittle,” Jack says, catching up way too fast (damn Jack and his long legs). “Eric. I’m sorry, I just thought -”

Eric reaches the trees and rounds on Jack. “Look, I’m doing my best okay? I know I’m not the best player, but I practice my heart out, I really do.” Eric ignores the tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. “And I’m really glad that the team is so accepting of me being the way I am, I really am, but I would like a fucking _date_ sometimes, you know? I want to meet someone and not be awkward and terrible and maybe have them like me. I want to feel like I didn’t come all the way up here to be just as alone as I was -”

Eric’s rant is cut off by Jack’s mouth landing squarely on his, Jack’s big arms bracketing him against the tree behind him. Eric’s surprised ‘oh’ is swept up by Jack’s tongue, and Eric shivers all the way down to his toes. While his brain is stuttering through a _howwhywhat_ freakout, Eric’s hands fist in the front of Jack’s shirt and pull him closer. Jack moans and Eric is pretty sure he must have fallen on his head and been knocked out, and he kind of hopes someone finds his body before he freezes to death, but not before he gets through this awesome dream. 

 

*

Jack’s honestly not sure how he got here, with Eric Bittle pressed warm against him, his mouth sliding hot along Jack’s, his clever fingers sliding into Jack’s hair. All he remembers is that Eric looked unconscionably sad and _lonely_ and like he didn’t think he was good enough for that dumb a capella guy, and Jack had wanted to prove him wrong so much that kissing seemed the only logical answer. Because Jack’s pretty sure that Bitty’s too good for most people, even Jack. Maybe especially Jack. 

It’s been a while since Jack’s made out with a guy, and Jack doesn’t let himself think about that much, about the heat and the strength and the ease of those times. But he finds it again with Bitty, in the way their bodies fit together, the way Eric’s fingers sting as they dig into Jack’s scalp. “Bits,” he manages, his lips sliding over Bitty’s jaw, and he barely recognizes his own voice. 

“Yeah, yes,” Bitty replies and Jack pushes against him even further, pushes until he can feel the scratch of tree bark under his palms, until Bitty is arched up against him, his neck bent back so they can keep kissing. Jack has this crazy urge to pick Bitty up, to have his strong thighs wrapped around his middle, but he also feels dizzy enough that it’s probably not the best idea. Instead, he hunches down, runs his fingers down the exposed column of Bitty’s throat and follows them with his mouth. “Oh, god, we should -” Bitty shivers as Jack bites down, and Jack smiles against his skin. Bitty feels feverish in the chilly March air, and Jack worries for a minute he’s getting sick. 

That thought is enough to bring Jack back into the moment, where he’s fifty feet from most of the Samwell student body, making out with Eric Bittle against a goddamn tree. 

Bitty, like a mind-reader, pulls back a fraction. “The Haus,” he says, his voice a little scratchy. “Jack, we should -” 

“Yeah,” Jack says, and he’s running hot and cold now, like he can feel the bubble of this moment stretching and pulling around him, threatening to burst. He wants to pull Bitty close again, wants… he just _wants_ , in a way he hasn’t felt in years. He takes Bitty’s hand and pulls him away from the tree. “Let’s go, my room.”

On the walk back to the Haus, Jack lets himself notice all the things he’s tried not to as he and Bitty became teammates and then friends - the long curve of his neck, the way his hips are small enough to fit in Jack’s palms, the length of his eyelashes when he turns to give Jack a nervous smile over his shoulder. He feels seventeen and stupid all over again, and he can’t help but remember the last time he did this, when he and Parse - 

Jack stumbles a few steps and nearly flinches back when Bitty touches his arm. 

“You okay?” Bitty asks, and Jack nods jerkily. He’s remembering dark corners and hot mouths and big, warm hands on his skin, but those memories always slip into the ones that came after, full of secrets and bone-deep anxiety and Jack nearly shaking out of his skin with fear after they were almost caught in Parse’s hotel room in Toronto. The bubble bursts, and Jack’s whole body feels like a raw nerve, electric currents under his skin where Bitty closes his hand gently around Jack’s wrist. “We’re here,” he says quietly, his eyes wide and worried. When Jack looks up, he finds they’re standing in front of the steps of the Haus.

“Bitty -” Jack tries, but he doesn’t know how to put into words what’s happening in his head right now.

“Come on, Jack,” Bitty pulls him inside and Jack can hear the sounds of the Haus settle over him - the pop-and-crack of the radiators, the tinny sound of someone playing video games in the basement, Ransom and Holster arguing over movies in the kitchen, probably over a pan of Bitty’s brownies. He glances over to where Bitty hasn’t moved an inch from the door, pressed against it like his knees are wobbly. His mouth is red, his hair a mess. He’s gorgeous and he’s terrifying.

“We’re not going to your room, are we, Jack?” he says, and he sounds sad, sadder than he’d sounded back at the dance when Jack had been overwhelmed with it, with wanting to fix it. Jack wants to say yes, wants to push his hair off his forehead and kiss the wrinkle in his brow and pull him upstairs and into Jack’s room, Jack’s bed. But.

But.

“I can’t, Bitty,” he pushes out, and Bitty just huffs out a laugh that’s at clear odds with the tears in his eyes.

“Yeah, okay,” Bitty tells him. Jack lets him go upstairs without another word, and stays standing in the foyer for a long time, watching the spot where Bitty had been and wishing he was stronger. But Jack knows his limits, knows what he has to do to stay on track, and he adds ‘more hockey, less Bitty’ to his list, even though the thought makes something twist painfully in his chest.

*

Eric isn’t an idiot. He also spent enough time in the closet to know what that feeling is, the constant fear of being caught out, literally. He just didn’t think Jack would care that much about his sexuality. If it’s not hockey-related, Eric figured Jack was likely to roll with pretty much anything. He’s clearly an idiot when it comes to Jack - in more ways than one. Eric’s heart is battered from the whiplash of kissing Jack after spending months pretending all he felt was friendly affection. Now, he feels the ache in his chest when he thinks about him, about that night and what could have been. It was as though a genie had granted Eric his one, true heart’s desire, and then ripped it away just as Eric was understanding how big a gift it really was.

It sucks.

Eric starts counting the days to graduation. He’d been keeping track before, in an abstract way, knowing that it was only a handful of months before Shitty and Jack were graduating and everything would change. But now Eric wakes up feeling like everything’s already changed, everything’s off-kilter enough to make him jumpy, and he’s counting the days until it might get better. The only measure he has is the number of days that Jack Zimmerman is sharing his ice, his kitchen, his fucking bathroom. 

Jack’s taken to showering at the rink most days, where’s he spending more hours during the off season than he did in the middle of playoffs, but they still have awkward run-ins over toothbrushes and shaving kits. They pass like ghosts on campus, and Bitty starts spending more time in the library than the Haus with the excuse that his GPA needs a little TLC. He actually spends less time in the kitchen - if given notice that he’d have his heart screwed up, Eric would have laid odds that he’d go into a baking frenzy that would last for weeks, but he barely has it in him to crank out snickerdoodles for Nursey’s birthday. He actually has to throw out milk that’s gone bad in the fridge.

Rans and Holster give him worried looks. Shitty does too, but even more are saved for Jack, who’s lost enough weight that Eric feels a strange sort of guilt whenever he looks at him. And then he feels a stab of righteous indignation, then a wave of sadness, and then a bit queasy, so Eric’s trying to look at Jack as little as possible these days.

He doesn’t tell anyone, though. And not just because he’s not sure what he’d even say - all they’d done was kiss, really, even though it felt a lot bigger than that to Eric. But he also remembers the look on Jack’s face when they reached the Haus, like Jack was actually _scared_ of him. Eric’s seen Jack face down whole lines of players bigger than him, seen him face down Shitty on a tirade and professors he thinks are wrong, and journalists who want nothing more than to watch Jack have a breakdown, and he’s stood stoic and steadfast in the face of all of them. Eric isn’t going to be the one who causes Jack Zimmerman to backslide into his pre-Samwell problems. He’ll let Jack deal with it in his own way, and try to stay out of his way as much as possible.

Eric sees the guy from the dance around campus a few times, and they smile at each other, and Eric wishes he felt something, anything at all.

But it’s like Jack’s kiss stole that too, and Eric grits his teeth and heads to the library and tries to keep his mind on anything that’s not Jack or hockey or boys.

It’s early April when Eric hears a thump against his bedroom door and opens it to find Jack on the other side, his hands clenched in his shirt, his eyes wide. His face is red and splotchy, and Eric finally notices he’s not breathing right when he sways into Eric’s doorframe.

“Oh my god, Jack, sit down, sit,” he says, pulling Jack inside and pushing him to sit on the edge of his bed. “Breathe,” he says, rubbing Jack’s back in small circles. Shitty’s mentioned Jack’s panic attacks before, how his chest got so tight he couldn’t breathe, and Eric is pretty sure that’s what’s happening now. “Put your head down, come on, you know it’ll help,” Eric tells him, and Jack crumples forward until his head hangs between his knees. He tries once, twice to pull air into his lungs, letting out a terrible wheezing sort of sound as he does it. Eric’s own heart is pounding. After a few minutes with his head down Jack seems to be breathing a little easier, but he’s still shaking. Eric lays a hand over the back of his neck. “You’re okay, Jack. You’re fine, everything’s fine.”

*

Jack laughs, this broken, jarring sound that hurts his own ears, his chest. “I’m not fine, Eric,” he says, looking up at Bitty. His vision is still blurry from his panic attack - he hasn’t had one that bad since before rehab. “My agent just called. I’m going to get picked up in June. Probably not first round, but second maybe. It’s going to happen.” 

Despite everything between them over the past weeks, Eric’s face splits into a smile so wide it almost hurts to look at him. “Jack, Jack that’s amazing, that’s -”

“Did you know the average professional hockey career is six years? My dad played for fifteen. Fifteen years on the ice.”

“You sound like that’s a bad thing.”

“I used to think that all I ever wanted was to play pro hockey. Except it’s not. I want… other things, Bits. Things I can’t have if I do this.” Jack looks down, studies his hands as they twist together in his lap. 

“Jack,” Bitty says, his voice cracking a little, and Jack’s intensely glad he can’t see his face right now.

“I don’t know if I can spend fifteen years hiding from everyone,” he grits out, and it’s the closest to coming out Jack’s ever been, and his hands won’t stop shaking.

“Then don’t.” Bitty’s voice is calm and quiet, and he reaches out to pull at Jack’s hand, to hold it in his own. Jack watches, his chest aching at the sight of their fingers tangled together. “If you can play, you can play, right?”

Jack shakes his head. He hates that campaign because he knows it’s what the sports world wants to be true, but it’s not. Not yet. Samwell is this perfect little bubble of acceptance, but Jack remembers the locker room talk from his Juniors days, remembers the jokes that were more like threats and the coaches who laughed at them and the feeling that if anyone ever found out, his career would be over before it began.

“I can’t be the Michael Sam of the NHL, Bitty. I just - I’m not that guy. I can barely get through a conversation about _hockey_ with the press. And after - they’re already watching me, already waiting for me to fail. You know I’m right about that.” Bitty nods, and Jack is glad he’s not going to try to convince him the press is excited about a Jack Zimmermann comeback. “Someone’ll do it someday, but I just can’t. I _can’t_ , Bits. I’m sorry.”

Bitty leans into his side, resting his head on Jack’s shoulder. They’re quiet for a long time, and Jack feels the panic in his chest subside into a dull ache.

“What do you want, Jack?” Bitty asks him quietly and Jack just sighs.

“I want to play hockey. I just want to play hockey and be left the fuck alone.”

“And you think you can’t play hockey and like boys?”

Jack pulls back to stare at Bitty, a little stung. “I think it’s a multi-billion dollar industry operating in a pretty homophobic society and it’s a hell of a lot more complicated than that.”

“True. But you would NOT be the first queer hockey player in the NHL. It’s statistically impossible. And if they can do it, you can too. You don’t have to give them all of you, Jack. You don’t have to rip your chest open and present your heart at the draft ceremony. You can keep who you are to yourself, and you can choose to be who you are behind whatever closed doors you want. You don’t owe me anything, Jack. And you sure as hell don’t owe the NHL. But you owe it to yourself to be happy.” Bitty’s flushed, his eyes flashing, and Jack wants to kiss him so much it physically hurts. “What do you _want_ , Jack?”

He looks at his hand, tight in Bitty’s, and he knows the answer is simple even if it complicates everything. “This,” he says, giving Bitty’s hand a squeeze. 

“Okay,” Bitty says, “That’s easy. You’ve already got it, Zimmermann.” His smile is watery. “Just take it.” And Jack does what he’s wanted to do for a month, what he’s been running from since the GALA dance, and he leans in to kiss Bitty again, soft and tentative. 

It’s different this time, slow and sweet and without that frantic edge Jack felt that night. He feels the panic pushing in, making his chest tight, but Bitty’s other hand cups his jaw and Jack can’t feel panicked about this, not when it’s so easy. He twists so they’re facing each other and wraps his arm around Bitty’s waist. He doesn’t realize how much he’s pulling Bitty in until Bitty has to push up on one knee to keep from tipping into Jack’s lap. But having Bitty in his lap actually sounds pretty great to Jack, and he curls one hand around Bitty’s thigh, tugging until Bitty swings his leg over to straddle him. Jack takes the opportunity to hook his fingers in Bitty’s t-shirt and pull it up and over his head. When he leans back a little to take his off too, Bitty almost tips back off his lap, grabbing at Jack’s arm with an ‘oh dear’ that makes them both laugh.

Bitty’s wraps both his arms around Jack’s neck to keep his balance. His back is warm and solid under Jack’s hands and Jack wants to touch him everywhere. At this angle, they’re nose-to-nose and Jack can’t help but notice the pale freckles across Bitty’s cheek. “Hi,” he says dumbly, and Bitty’s smile is so happy it makes Jack’s chest ache.

“Hi. You okay?” he asks, his fingers sliding into Jack’s hair, and Jack’s honestly not sure he’s okay in general, but in this moment, right now, he’s better than okay. He nods. Bitty kisses his nose, the corner of his eye, the jut of his cheekbone - feather-light kisses that make Jack smile despite himself. “We don’t have to, you know, do anything. If you don’t want.”

“Does it seem like I don’t want?” Jack says, raising his eyebrow. Bitty blushes pink, and he wonders if Bitty’s more nervous than he is. “What do _you_ want, Bits?” he asks, and Bitty just blushes harder. 

“I don’t know,” he says, not quite meetings Jack’s eyes. “I haven’t - this is all kind of. New.”

It’s a crazy thought, that Jack’s gotten more action while cowering in the closet than out, proud and beautiful Eric Bittle, but it’s also one that makes Jack feel a surge of pride that he’s the one who Bitty trusts enough, wants enough to be here with him. He kisses across Bitty’s shoulder, glances down to see the tight peaks of Bitty’s nipples. Jack wants to kiss those too, and the curve of his bicep, and the hard lines of his hips, and - “I want to blow you,” he says, his words ghosting over Bitty’s skin. Bitty shudders in his arms. “Is that a yes?” he asks, grinning as he glances up at Bitty’s face. He’s bright red now, but his pupils are huge. 

“Yeah, yes, that’s - if you want to, I mean - okay,” he stutters, and Jack grins wider and smacks a kiss to his lips. 

“Pants off, and lay back against the pillows,” he says, and while he’s a little mortified that it sound like his Captain’s voice, Bitty wastes no time scrambling off his lap and kicking his jeans off. Jack stands up just long enough to take his off too and then he’s back on the bed, kneeling between Bitty’s knees. He’s flushed from his cheeks down to the middle of his torso, his hair mussed from Jack’s hands. Bitty’s left his underwear on, and his dick is already straining a bit against the fabric. He’s everything Jack hasn’t let himself want in years, and Jack’s dizzy from how much he wants this now. 

“Jack?” Bitty asks, a little worried, his hands twitching restlessly on the bedspread.

Jack leans down to kiss his throat. “You’re fucking gorgeous, Bits,” he murmurs against his skin, and Bitty relaxes a fraction under him. Jack lets his mouth wander for long minutes, cataloguing the places that make Bitty squirm and laugh and the ones that make him gasp and scrabble at Jack’s shoulders. He could spend hours doing this - hell, he might someday - but as his tongue swipes over Bitty’s hipbone, Bitty huffs in frustration. “Something you need, Bittle?” he asks, eyebrow raised, and Bitty just bites his lip.

“Are you going to - I mean, you don’t have to - oh my god -” Bitty nearly arches off the bed when Jack presses his tongue to the wet patch on Bitty’s underwear, sucks a little on the head of his dick through the fabric. It’s been ages but Jack remembers this taste, salty and musky, clean and dirty all at once. He groans a little, peeling Bitty’s underwear down enough to taste him properly, to suck hard enough that his cheeks hollow. Bitty’s making noises above him and Jack catalogues those too - the high, breathy whines when Jack sucks long and hard; the gasp like he’s been hit when Jack’s thumb presses just behind his balls. 

Bitty’s dick is like a mini-version of Bitty himself - not too big but smooth and perfect and exactly the right size for Jack to be able to take him all in without gagging, his nose brushing the coarse blond hairs at Bitty’s groin. “Jack, Jack, shit, Jack,” Bitty whispers frantically above him, and Jack knows he’s close by the way his hands stop being careful and start tugging on Jack’s hair. Jack just presses his forearm over Bitty’s hips and holds him down as he comes, swallowing until Bitty keens above him, pushing Jack’s head away. 

He catches his breath with his forehead pressed to Bitty’s thigh. Bitty’s panting above him, and Jack’s mouth tastes like him, and Jack is suddenly aware again of his own dick, hard and leaking in his boxers. He reaches a hand down, palms himself hard enough that he groans against Bitty’s skin. “No, c’mere,” Bitty says, tugging on his arm. Jack’s plan is to lay down next to Bitty, maybe see if Bitty’s up for giving him a hand, but as he raises to his knees, Bitty sits up too. At this angle, Bitty’s mouth is level with Jack’s abs and he kisses down them as his hands tug down Jack’s boxers. Jack can’t tear his eyes away as Bitty looks at his dick for a long moment before wrapping his slender fingers around it and stroking gently. 

It’s so, so good, and Jack is so, so close. “Harder,” he grunts, and Bitty bites his lip and tightens his grip, his strokes coming faster. 

“Like this?” Bitty asks, looking up into Jack’s face, his mouth red and bitten. Jack thinks that someday very soon that mouth will probably be on his dick, and the thought alone is enough to push him over the edge. He comes with barely any warning, one hand landing on Bitty’s shoulder as he shoots onto Bitty’s chest, his neck. “Oh,” Bitty says, surprised, but he smiles as Jack shudders through the aftershocks, stroking him until Jack pulls away to sit back on his heels. 

“Oh, fuuuck,” Jack manages, his head hanging between his shoulders. When he blinks his eyes open, Bitty is looking down at himself in dismay. 

“I’m a mess,” he says accusingly, but his eyes are bright and laughing. Jack reaches down and grabs his discarded t-shirt from the floor and tosses it at him. 

“Sex is messy, Bits,” he tells him, “get used to it.”

“Okay, _fine_ , I guess it’s worth it,” Bitty fake-grumbles as he wipes himself off, and Jack has to lean in and kiss him again, and again, pressing him back until they’re wrapped up in each other against Bitty’s pillows.

They’re quiet for a while, Jack just holding on to Bitty and letting Bitty’s fingers explore his skin. He feels a fullness in chest that’s somehow the opposite of a panic attack - it feels _right_ , like he’s supposed to be here, and he doesn’t want to let it go. He wants to share it, if he can. If he can figure out how. “I don’t want you to be my dirty little secret, Eric,” he says, and Bitty’s nose brushes his cheek.

“You don’t have to tell the world, Jack. But if you want to tell someone else, you can. Just do what feels right to you, okay?”

Jack thinks he could tell his mom, maybe, but he’s not sure he’s ready for Bad Bob to know that Jack’s life is about to get even more complicated. He’s worried his parents enough over the last few years. He thinks about telling the team, thinks maybe someday he’ll have to tell his agent, but there’s really only one person Jack can think of telling right now that doesn’t scare the shit out of him. “Maybe I can tell Shitty, if that’s okay?” he says and he can feel Bitty’s smile against his skin.

“Yeah, that’s okay,” he says. He kisses Jack’s cheek. “I can make you a coming out pie, if you want? Hard conversations are always better with pie.”

Jack grins at the ceiling. For the first time in his life, the idea of telling someone about him, about _Bitty_ \- the idea of sitting next to Shitty on the roof, a warm pie between them, and saying ‘So, I think Bitty’s my boyfriend now’ isn’t terrifying. He’s almost looking forward to it. “Pie would great, Bits,” he says, and closes his eyes.


End file.
